


families and other weapons of mass destruction

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Family Shenanigans, Humour, I don't have an excuse for this, M/M, Q also wishes murder upon James' head, Q wishes he was dead, fill for a tumblr request, maybe crack, meet the family!, or something like humor idek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So when Q finally emerges from the kitchen wielding yellow rubber gloves, an edition of The Telegraph from last month and a Tesco plastic bag, he’s only vaguely surprised to hear his mum ask James to show her his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which there are some introductions

It’s not that Q doesn’t like his family. Contrary to popular belief, Q had a _perfectly_ fine childhood growing up and no matter what the technicians might say otherwise, Q’s fondness for explosives has absolutely nothing to do with unresolved tensions resurfacing in the form of an uncanny knack for precise, controlled destruction. Unless of course, you count that one time with the neighbour’s dog, Batman issue #553 and an exploding mailbox. Q isn’t proud of that, but then the feeling usually goes away whenever he pulls up James’ Eton records.

  


* * *

  


It’s a bleak Monday afternoon when James has his fingers hooked around the belt loops of Q’s trousers, practically dragging Q down the hall by them and shoving Q none too gently up against the front door of his apartment while Q fumbles for his keys, cursing under his breath when James nips at his chin. “Will you _stop_ trying to rut me like a sixteen year old and let me open my bloody door?” Q hisses when he misses the lock for the third time. James answers with knee between Q’s legs and a hand cupped around Q’s crotch, squeezing gently.

“Open the bloody door in question and then maybe I won’t have to stop,” James all but purrs in Q’s ear. “You can disable almost every bomb type in the Northern hemisphere, but can’t fit a key into a hole? Poor form, Q. Poor form indeed.”

“Northern and Southern,” Q corrects with a shallow gasp and _finally_ there’s the blessed click he’s been waiting for, James muttering obsceneties under his breath when they finally stumble through the doorway.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t know your own name after I’m done,” James is saying when he kicks the door shut behind them and Q finds himself on his back in the hallway of his apartment, James kneeling between Q’s legs with a look of near primal hunger etched onto the very lines of his face. “Going to–“

An abrupt stop and the hands on Q’s chest are suddenly gone, Q barely able to register the exact moment James had reached into suit jacket to pull out the Glock 17 that Q keeps trying to convince James to trade in for something classier. 

“Good heavens,” gasps a voice from down the hall. It’s followed almost instantly by the sound of breaking glass and Q blearily finds himself wishing that he hadn’t been so efficient in averting that Zambian coup an hour earlier, if only to avoid _this_ clusterfuck of a situation.

“Put the gun away, James,” Q sighs. He reaches up to nudge James’ aim away. “I think I’ll be quite displeased if you end up shooting my mother in the face.”

  


* * *

  


James at least has the decency to look embarrassed, sitting prim and proper directly opposite the formidable looking woman that keeps sizing him up from still-flushed cheeks to discreetly folded hands. Q is perched miserably on the side of the couch, trying to remember why he had ever thought it a good idea to give his mother the keys to his apartment.

“Terribly sorry about earlier,” James is saying and Q is more than a little upset that he’s currently too mortified to take pleasure in how James Bond, defender of the British empire and receiver of the all-around arsehole award for ten years running, actually seems to be something like two syllables away from squirming in his seat. “I didn’t mean to cause a shock or anything, Mrs.–“

“Oh, don’t be a ninny. Eileen, just Eileen will do, my dear boy.”

“Eileen,” James parrots obediently and with that, Q is promptly sent to the kitchen for rubber gloves and a newspaper lined bag to clean up the broken pieces of the casserole dish _Eileen_ had shattered. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath as he rummages for rubbish bags in the drawer, all to the sound of muted conversation wafting in from the lounge. James is a double-oh, has saved more countries and killed more people than Q cares to keep track of, but all of that is probably coming to naught at the moment. After all, the only women Q thinks James has ever interacted with are the ones he’s slept with (see file 2.1 under code 007) , the ones he absolutely has to work with for the good of Queen and country (M, mostly, plus various secretaries) and various baristas, none of whom require anything other than a good deal of flirting to get by with.

So when Q finally emerges from the kitchen wielding yellow rubber gloves, an edition of The Telegraph from last month and a Tesco plastic bag, he’s only vaguely surprised to hear his mum ask James to show her his gun.

“He will be doing _no_ such thing,” Q chokes out and James is already halfway out of his seat, apparently more than eager to help with cleaning up even though Q knows for a fact that whenever the housekeeping agency can’t spare someone for the week, tiny bacterial civilisations have been known to establish themselves in James’ kitchen sink. “Mum I think I might need another bag, so maybe if you can just run to the kitchen for a bit…”

“Oh don’t be _daft_ ,” Eileen says airily and with one look, James is obediently back in his seat. So much for having saved the free world twice. “One bag is more than enough and you know it. Trying to keep your lovely new boyfriend away from your mam now, aren’t you?” There’s a knowing glance cast in James’ direction and James can only smile weakly in return, settling a little deeper into his chair. _Traitor,_ Q thinks sourly. _Fucking traitor._ He throws his hands up in defeat before getting on his knees to pick glass off the floor while his mum continues her interrogation of James Bond, James answering everything with a politeness that eventually grows into something that could even be called genuine warmth. 

On the floor, Q crushes a small shard of glass between his thumb and finger. Hopes with a growing desperation that James gets irritable bowel syndrome from the amount of negative vibes Q is currently sending James’ way.

  


* * *

  


By the time Q has deposited the glass into the recyclables bin, Eileen has managed to extract a verbal promise from James to join the next family dinner. “He never brings anyone home,” she’s sighing, James traitorously nodding along in encouragement. “Why, I’d even say it’s a bit of a miracle that we even figured out he fancies…” Eileen waves a hand at James, as if trying to find the right word to describe him, “…men. Not that we love him any less for that, heavens no! We’re a progressive lot, voted Labour and everything.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Q pleads, refusing to even look at James’ face for now in case he throttle the man and rid Britain of her most favoured (and frankly, most annoying) agent. “Mum, please, I thought we had a no politics rule.”

“Hush, child, James and I are having a perfectly wonderful conversation. This is partly your fault I’m like this, you know.” Eileen draws an almost hangdog air about herself, the very portrait of disappointment. “All these years and not even a single word about all your boys.”

“All his boys?” James echoes the moment Q drops his head into his hands with a groan. “Looks like someone was popular even back in the day.” _I will drug you, tear your ribcage out and make you watch me wear it as a hat,_ Q thinks furiously at James who only shrugs, a shit-eating grin on his stupid face.

“Oh no, he wasn’t all that much of a looker right up till he hit fifth form. That was when the braces came off and we had all these lads from the younger forms coming round for tutoring, even though the good lord knows most of them didn’t even learn a damned equation in the end.”

Q makes a dismal sound, not needing to look up to know that James is probably pissing himself laughing. Next to him, Eileen pats her son’s knee comfortingly. “Oh I’m sorry love, am I embarrassing you?”


	2. in which there is murderous intent and little else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “James, do I need to remind you who actually makes the field equipment that you use?” Q pulls into a leafy, quiet street lined with neat looking townhouses on either side. “I will program your next field-issue mobile to play Crazy Frog and _only_ Crazy Frog, without the option of silencing ringtones. Don’t think for one goddamned second that I won’t.”

By the time Q manages to bundle Eileen out of his apartment, (“ _No_ , mum, I don’t need you to cook dinner for us, thank you. Go home, we’ll be fine. _Yes_ I’m eating enough vegetables.”) James has dropped his prim and proper facade, now instead sprawled inelegantly in one corner of the couch with his legs wide open.

“I don’t suppose you’re inclined to continue where we left off earlier?”

James smirks at Q, who just flips the finger in James’ general direction. 

“If my life collapsing around my ears is a turn on for you, by all means, please proceed.” Q has one arm thrown dramatically over his face. “You’re an A-grade arse, you know that?”

“Says someone who apparently spent their weekends seducing younger students back in secondary. Tutoring? Really? That’s what it’s called nowadays?” James pulls himself out of his slouch, stretching. “Back in my time, we just called it shagging.”

“I thought back in your time they called it ye olde fornication,” Q shoots back venomously and throws a cushion at James’ head. “And for the last time, there was no _shagging_ of any kind. Also, I tutored on Wednesday afternoons.”

  


* * *

  


Q knows that he really shouldn’t be wishing for constant threats to national security, but given his current circumstances, he does suppose that he could be forgiven for feeling relieved at this evening’s attempted terrorist attacks on the Houses of Parliament.

“I’ll have to skip out on dinner,” he says into his earpiece as he keeps track of James via a patch into the area’s security cameras. Across the city, Eileen heaves a long suffering sigh and tells her son that if this is just him trying to cook up an excuse to not bring his lovely (her words, not his, good god almighty in his lofty heaven above) boyfriend home, Q should know that he can’t run forever. 

“Your da and I, we aren’t getting any younger you know. Even Gracie brought her new boy over the other week and don’t tell her this, but he’s not half a looker or a gentleman as your James is. Poor child and her tastes in men.” Eileen tsks her disapproval and Q makes a sound to imply that he’s somewhat listening, fingers tapping at his keyboard to contact the disposal units. 

On screen, the looker and gentleman in question is tackling a would-be bomber to the floor, eventually wrenching the poor man’s arms behind his back and sitting on him with a look of grim triumph as he waits for backup.

“I’ll try and make it next time, I promise,” Q answers distractedly. “Look, mum, I’ll call you back later, alright?”

“Don’t bother, I know you never do. Just remember to tell your James that he’s welcome in our home anytime, absolutely anytime at all. Oh and darling, I don’t suppose you know if he’ll prefer chicken or–“

“Mum I’m at _work_.”

A displeased huff on the other line and Q pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. “Fish,” he finally grinds out. Q might make things that blow people up for a living, but let no person ever say that he didn’t love his mum enough to indulge her, even if it usually made him question his life choices. “For the record, it’s fish. I’m going to hang up now, goodnight mum.”

  


* * *

  


The next time, Q isn’t half as lucky. James is miraculously in the country, not off in a god-forsaken corner of the earth cavorting after some pretentiously named manifestation of modern evil and Q actually…has no excuse for the night. There aren’t any new firearms that need testing, no equipment that needs reworking (because really now, if Q made it, it shouldn’t even need touch-ups) and it’s almost as if all the usual purveyors of international shenanigans have decided to take a collective holiday in light of Q’s first family dinner in two years.

“Maybe Vanuatu needs a new government,” Q says hopefully when James shows up at his front door holding a bottle of wine and looking impeccably…normal, for a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service who had just gotten off a flight from Somalia 36 hours ago. “Maybe Singapore has an internal crisis that–“

“That will remain internal,” finishes James in an amused tone. Given the nature and demands of his job, Q usually doesn’t have a single harried molecule in his entire being, but tonight, Q is practically on the verge of hopping from foot to foot in apparent distress. “And I think every higher power in existence will be sorely disappointed in you if you orchestrated something that made me miss your mum’s cooking. I heard she’s doing fish tonight.

“We’re going for dinner with my family and–…wait. Wait, what did you just say?”

“I heard it’s fish tonight?” James says innocently and in that moment, Q knows with every fibre of his being that James is anything but.

“You talked to my mother,” Q says, aghast. James only quirks the corner of his lips in reply. “Heaven so help me, James Bond, you actually _spoke to my mother_.”

“She called me up during lunch and we had a lovely chat about whether salmon would go well with the bottle of Grüner Veltliner I just bought the other day.”

Q thinks he needs to sit down for a moment. Possibly even lie down and not move ever again, because somehow his mother had gotten hold of James’ personal mobile and good god, the possibilities were terrifying.

“Do I even want to know how she managed to contact you?”

James gets this particularly wicked smile on his face that makes Q instantly regret ever asking, Q collapsing onto the couch to brace for the worst.

“What sort of gentleman do you think I am, Q? One does not simply show a lady his gun and not leave a number after that.”

Q buries his face into the upholstery with a groan that could wake the dead and curses the foundations of his existence.

  


* * *

  


By some demonic intervention, they manage to make it to Hillingdon well within the timeframe for dinner, Q driving and James dropping increasingly disturbing snippets of his conversation with Eileen.

“You really must tell me about that time with the neighbour’s mailbox,” James is saying as Q cuts ruthlessly into traffic, staring straight ahead as he drives. “And that other time with the Batman themed–“

“James, do I need to remind you who actually makes the field equipment that you use?” Q pulls into a leafy, quiet street lined with neat looking townhouses on either side. “I will program your next field-issue mobile to play Crazy Frog and _only_ Crazy Frog, without the option of silencing ringtones. Don’t think for one goddamned second that I won’t.”

James settles into his seat, still grinning, but at least silent for a while. The car is parked in front of a corner unit that has a tidy side garden with flowers growing in pots and even a smallish water fountain that James raises an eyebrow at. Quite a conducive environment to raise someone who claimed (with good authority) the ability to bring Britain to her knees in only his pyjamas, really. 

“I’m actually a bit disappointed with Crazy Frog.” James seems to have finally found his voice again now that they’re out on pavement and within hollering distance of the house. Wretchedly, Q realises that there are too many witnesses around for him to wring James’ neck and wrestle the lifeless body of one double-oh agent into the boot of his BMW. “Eileen had me expecting something more…Spice Girls-ish, if memory serves me right,” James continues on as they make their way up the short flight of steps and Q rings the doorbell, James cradling his bottle of Grüner Veltliner.

“Autumn of 1998? Ring any bells?” James is wearing a pleased smile and looking pointedly ahead at the door, shifting the bottle from one arm to the other. 

“Fuck you,” Q murmurs to James through his prepared smile and the front door of his parents’ house swings open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is at hand! I have no idea what I'm doing!


	3. in which there is cooking and possessiveness, to some extent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must be James,” she coos and Q is left holding a bowl of salad.
> 
> "If I’m not, then I think you should be worried about having a complete stranger break into your house.” James does a thing with his smile that Q has to privately roll his eyes yet. Later, he and James are going to have a Very Serious Discussion about things that are okay and things that are not okay. Seducing his sister is definitely on the not okay list, but Bond is already sticking his hand out to Gracie who takes it almost shyly. 
> 
> “It's Bond," James says. "James Bond.”

“Oh darling, you’re just on time.” Eileen has her arms around James’ shoulders, airkissing the bemused agent on each cheek while her son stands awkwardly to the side, wondering how on god’s good earth this is even happening. “I’ve got Gracie with the vegetables in the kitchen so there’s more than enough time to catch up. You were across the pond earlier this week, yes? How was your trip?” She steps aside and shoos them into the hallway, fussing over hanging James’ coat up without getting it creased. 

Q hangs his own damned coat on the nearest peg.

“It went perfectly, thank you,” James is saying to Eileen as they make their way towards the sitting area and Q knows for a fact that the trip did _not_ go perfectly fine in the slightest, what with three collapsed buildings, a diplomat confined to bedrest for the next eight months, an indefinitely traumatised herd of cattle and a damages bill that still makes Q weep a little on the inside whenever he looks at it. “The scenery is quite lovely over in Colorado, very peaceful.”

 _Not since last week,_ Q thinks bleakly to himself and Eileen is pressing the wine bottle that James had been holding into Q’s hands, telling him to be a dear and go have it chilled while she shows James around the house.

“And when we’re done with dinner, you’re going to tell me just what _you’ve_ been up to these past few weeks since lord knows we’ll never get a word out of you unless we badger you about it.”

“I’ve been…busy,” is all Q says as he cradles the bottle of Grüner Veltliner.

“Busy enough that you couldn’t even ring to let us know you’re still alive?”

Behind Eileen, James raises a dramatic eyebrow at Q and shakes his head in faux disapproval. “Terrible,” he mouths at Q, despite the fact that Q had spent those previously mentioned weeks perfecting the program that broke James out of maximum security in Somalia barely forty eight hours past. “So terrible.”

Q wills himself to ignore James and instead, works on looking both meek and guilty at the same time. So much for loyalty within Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

“It was a hectic few weeks,” he says, not untruthfully. Eileen tuts at Q and pinches her son in the side, Q letting out a sound no grown man should ever make, especially in the presence of a double-oh who’s sometimes more cheeky adolescent than trained killer. “ _Mum_ I’m not fourteen anymore!” James smirks wide enough for it to probably hurt. Fucking _bastard_.

“Then you’d best act like it and check in with us, young man.”

Q is one of six individuals in the entire world who can effectively bring on World War III with a few choice keystrokes and Q knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that he can easily collapse any given world government while sipping cocoa in his flannel pyjamas, but all of this amounts to nothing at all when he’s currently trying not to visibly be cowed into submission under his mother’s scrutinising gaze.

“I’ll try to call more often next time,” Q says in submission and goes to put the wine in the fridge. 

“Dreadfully sorry about this, James darling. I don’t suppose he’s like this with you as well? Falls off the grid for weeks on end? Doesn’t quite listen when you tell him to do something?”

“Oh yes, he has his moments,” James says eagerly like the traitorous liar that he is and Q thinks could almost scream from the unfairness of it all.

  


* * *

  


Gracie is trying to julienne carrots in the kitchen when Q walks in with the wine.

“So I heard from mum that you have a handsome new boytoy,” she says cheerfully in greeting. “Care to share?”

“Hush about that, he’s not a boytoy,” Q says miserably. The wine goes into the fridge next to where the rest of the salad is sitting. “And if you even think about trying to sleep with him, I will end you.”

Gracie makes a rude gesture at Q with her knife and Q returns the sentiment with a well placed finger. 

“Do I look like I even want your sloppy seconds?” 

“After what’s his name…Thomas? Tim? Why yes, yes I do think you’d be game for anyone and anything.”

“ _Trent_ ,” sighs Gracie. “His name is Trent and I don’t give a flaming rat’s arse about what you think. He’s coming to dinner tonight as well so you’d better be nice to him, alright? Now pass me the salad, you insufferable knob.”

Q passes his sister the salad from the fridge and she tips the carrots into the bowl, taking her time with rearranging the condiments so they looked more artistically scattered.

“So this James of yours…I heard from mum that he’s quite the nice type, even if he carries guns around,” she starts up again when she’s delicately placing cherry tomatoes at strategic areas. 

“It was _a_ gun.” Technically, James is probably carrying at least two at any given moment, but the less you know. “And don’t believe the nice part, that’s all a huge pile of cowpat.”

“Well at any rate, he can’t possibly be worse than Andrew from last time.”

“Who’s Andrew from last time?” Q looks up so fast, he thinks he might give himself whiplash and James, damn the man, is standing at the doorway leading from dining area to kitchen. Gracie _beams_.

“You must be James,” she coos and Q is left holding a bowl of salad.

“If I’m not, then I think you should be worried about having a complete stranger break into your house.” James does a thing with his smile that Q has to privately roll his eyes yet. Later, he and James are going to have a Very Serious Discussion about things that are okay and things that are not okay. Seducing his sister is definitely on the not okay list, but Bond is already sticking his hand out to Gracie who takes it almost shyly.

“It's Bond," James says. "James Bond.”

“Grace, but you can just call me Gracie. Practically everyone does.”

“Gracie,” James purrs like the rogue he is. “I wasn’t told that good looks run in the family.” Q sets the bowl down onto the counter with a little more force than necessary and a cherry tomato almost makes a swan dive onto the floor.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a house tour?” Q demands, Gracie thankfully going to rescue the salad from Q before they have to make do without. 

“I insisted on helping out in the kitchen before anything and Eileen graciously let me in here. Besides–“ James smoothly takes the salad bowl from Q’s obviously delighted sister, “–you haven’t told me who Andrew from last time is.” 

_Oh bugger_ Q thinks and the look must have translated onto his face because Gracie jumps on it almost immediately.

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about Andrew,” she begins even as Q starts to make sounds of the abortive kind. James smiles in a way that makes some part of Q fear for their helping of vegetables that evening.

“He never tells me anything, really.”

“I’m _right here_ if any of you care to notice,” comes the protest, which is casually ignored by all other parties in the room. “ _Right here_.”

“Andrew was a bit of a tosser really, in my opinion. Very…” Gracie looks thoughtful as she turns to go check on the potatoes still roasting in the oven and Q takes the slim opportunity to vehemently shake his head at James, the universal sign for _don’t you dare go any further_. 

“Very?” prompts James, because he’s a sadist.

“Very…oh _you_ tell him yourself, I can’t find the words.”

“Me?” Q looks at his sister who’s busy making sure the potatoes are cooked and then at James, who just quirks an interrogative eyebrow back at him. “I…Andrew is–“

“Was,” mouths James silently.

“–a perfectly nice person, I don’t see why we’re even having this conversation when–“

“Oh come off it, that time during Christmas dinner? And Easter, before that?” Gracie slaps a bit more butter onto the potatoes. “What a nightmare.”

“It sounds quite bad,” James says politely when Q _knows_ James is already planning some sort of terrible, messy death in his head. He knows that look and that tone of voice; the last time they both showed, the clean-up crew were scraping bits of intestine off the walls for days. 

“Bad is an understatement.”

“ _Gracie_.”

“What? I’m just stating the facts as they are. He was perfectly horrid and you know it. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s all I’m saying.” She turns round to face James, who has schooled his face into the most pleasant of expressions. It’s also the one that Q has seen on James’ face before James drove a fork through someone’s throat. “I know we’ve only just met, but I’ve been told so much about you and can I just say, you’re probably worth a few hundred Andrews?”

“You may,” James grins. “But I’m giving you full permission to change your mind after this dinner.”

“Then again, you can change your mind right now if you want to,” Q suggests unhelpfully. “And I think you can leave the potatoes alone, we’ve got it handled in here.”

Gracie tuts and throws her oven mitts at Q who catches them just before they knock his glasses off. “Fine, I think it’s high time I give you boys some alone time together anyways–“

“We’re _older_ than you, thank you,” Q sniffs.

“–but just make sure nothing burns, okay?”

“Nothing will burn on our watch,” is all James says and only Q can hear the _except Andrew’s head on a stake in the woods_ in the undertone. “Don’t worry.”

  


* * *

  


“Andrew?” James demands the moment Gracie is out of earshot. From where they’re standing, they can hear the barest strains of her talking to Q’s mother in the hallway, the both of them probably going over the final arrangements on the dining table.

“None of your damned business.”

“Seeing that he’s a bastard, it has become my business.”

“It’s not…” Q trails off as he meets James’ eyes from across the counter and a chopping board full of vegetable shavings. “Oh god, _no_. James, don’t be an idiot, it’s not whatever you think–“

“Did he hurt you?”

“ _God no_.”

“Did he–“

“James,” Q says patiently. The oven dings in the background and Q pauses to put the mitts on. “James, he was just a rude, self-centred bastard who had terrible time management and bad hair.” Gingerly, Q eases the tray of potatoes out to drop onto the counter, going back to check on the fish still cooking on the upper rack. “Actually, that sounds a lot like you.”

“I _don’t_ have bad hair.”

“Ah, but you’re not denying the rest?”

The salmon seems to be coming along perfectly, though Q knows he’s hardly the best judge when he’s prone to subsisting on instant noodles for weeks at a stretch.

“I don’t have terrible time management either,” James protests, even as Q mutters “Maybe I _do_ have a type,” to himself. “What’s his last name?”

“You’re not going to do a background check,” Q says flatly. 

“Who said anything about a background check?”

“No.” 

“Gracie will tell me.”

“Then she will be an accomplice in a homicide and I will wash my hands of the entire incident right here, right now.” The oven mitts go back into their place inside the lowest drawer and Q almost bumps his head onto James’ chin when he gets up, James having somehow made his way across the kitchen to bend over him in what James must think to be an intimidating way. Q knows how to make every last elevator in MI6 malfunction at the most inopportune times; James Bond cannot intimidate him to any large extent. “No means no,” Q sighs from where he’s settled back into a crouch least he knock James’ teeth out with his skull. “You don’t see me terrorising _your_ exes.”

“That’s only because you know there are too many for you to work through in this lifetime.”

Q looks up at Bond with familiar, almost fond (though Q won’t admit to it under gunpoint) exasperation and that is the precise moment that Eileen chooses to walk in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there's mentions of food so I guess it's progress of some kind? Terribly sorry this took so long I uh...got...distracted. Yeah. Happy Christmas!


	4. in which photographs are taken, mostly without prior consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh hush, you, it’s not like your mam is going to steal your man away.”
> 
> “Not that she doesn’t have the abilities to,” James chimes in traitorously and the only thing preventing Q from sticking his head in the oven is the tray of salmon that’s already occupying the top rack.

"Oh my god, just _look_ at the two of you."

"Mum what are you even–"

There's the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter clicking and the bright flash that accompanies it is more than enough to make Q lose whatever precarious balance he had been trying to maintain, Q landing sorely on his arse while above him, James blinks owlishly in the wake of a camera going off in his face. 

Eileen is _beaming_.

"Was that a–"

"Yes," grunts Q and James at least has the presence of mind and enough inclination towards self-preservation to stick his hand out for Q to pull himself up with. "Yes, it was. Mum what did I _say_ about turning the flash off while indoors?"

"Oh darling don't be such a spoilsport." Eileen snaps another photo of them and Q doesn't want to know what sort of demonic scrapbook _that_ shot is going to get put into later, he really doesn't. “Until you start bringing your beaus back home more often–"

"Beaus," James mouths to Q over Eileen's shoulder, apparently having recovered from having his photo taken. He has one hand flung dramatically over his face in what Q supposes is James’ approximation of a very bad Mills and Boon cover. " _Beaus_."

"–I'm going to treat each occasion like it's Christmas. Lord knows it only happens once a year, and that's only if we're very, very lucky.” Eileen fiddles with the camera a bit before turning round to face James. “And on that note, James dearie, whatever my ingrate son tells you about dropping by, don't listen to him, okay? You come by whenever you can, with or without him."

"It'll be my pleasure, Eileen.” James smiles in a way that reminds Q of Cheshire cats and to some smaller extent, great white sharks. “It’ll my absolute pleasure." 

What happens next easily makes it way into Q’s Top Twenty Scenarios From Hell. Smile still firmly in place, James bends down a little towards Eileen and Q can only watch on in glowering horror as James gets dangerously close to Eileen’s ear.

“After all–“ James purrs in a loud whisper that’s definitely meant more for Q than anything at all, “–I don’t always have to share you with him, do I?”

Eileen lets out an honest to god _giggle_ and Q doesn’t know whether he should kill himself or go for James first. Maybe both at the same time will be the best course of action, because while flirting with his sister might be one thing, James seducing Q’s _mother_ is just wrong on too many levels to let live.

“That’s _quite_ enough, thank you,” Q finally manages out in a strained voice. In front of him, James is contentedly letting Eileen pat him on the cheek, blissfully unaware of, or at the very least, purposefully ignoring how Q is trying to plan a suicide-homicide.

“Oh hush, you, it’s not like your mam is going to steal your man away.”

“Not that she doesn’t have the abilities to,” James chimes in traitorously and the only thing preventing Q from sticking his head in the oven is the tray of salmon that’s already occupying the top rack. 

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” One final pat and Eileen finally consents to backing away so she can shepherd Q towards James. “How that wretched son of mine managed to reel someone like you in, I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

“He’s very good at what he does,” is all James says coyly, accompanied with raised eyebrow and everything. “And very talented in many…areas.” Q silently shuffles over to stand by James’ side under his mother’s instruction, too mortified to even argue anymore. The only thing Q can console himself with at this point is the fact that James isn’t going to see any of _those_ areas for a long time to come after tonight’s dinner.

A very, _very_ long time.

  


* * *

  


Thanks to Eileen’s intervention and insistence, Q is passed the unholy role of official house-tour guide, with James as the sole member of his impromptu tour group.

"Dining area," Q says with little inspiration as he leads James through the house. “Living room. Hallway. Bathroom to the side. Kitchen behind you." In spite of Q’s blatant lack of enthusiasm and bland commentary, James actually seems to be enjoying himself. _Silly bastard_ , Q thinks to himself with surprisingly little venom and watches James wander up to the mantelpiece. 

Everything that shouldn’t be interesting in the slightest is inexplicably proving to be of extreme interest to James, which accounts for why James is trailing after Q at a speed that would be embarrassing for a septuagenarian, never mind a trained double-oh agent. Every nook of every cranny demands careful investigation and James studies Q’s childhood home with the sort of intensity that most field assignments don’t even aspire to receive. 

Q’s not sure if he should be worried or flattered. 

Maybe both.

James is in the process of picking a cushion up to look at the embroidery on it.

Okay, definitely both.

“I don’t remember signing up for the express tour,” James protests when Q has to physically drag James away from the living area least James gets on the floor to look at the carpet there. “This isn’t a tour, it’s a sprint.”

“Well, tough,” Q mutters as he steers James away from where James has started studying the wallpaper and forcibly manhandles James onto the first step of the stairs. “I don’t remember signing up for a tour to begin with, so too bad for you.”

They still have the upstairs rooms to cover before Q’s father comes back from store with Gracie’s new chew-toy cum boyfriend and given James’ intense interest in everything, _that_ endeavor is starting to look more improbable by the second.

“You know,” says Q after he has successfully gotten James onto the stairs, but is still failing spectacularly in getting James onto the next floor. “If you reserved half as much concentration for missions as you did for this, things would go a whole lot faster for everyone.”

Eileen has lined the way upstairs with various family photographs and James is stubbornly refusing to move until he has peered at each one in turn, occasionally quizzing Q on each. Q can’t even _remember_ when, where or how most of them were taken, but that’s probably due to Q having the uncanny ability to block out bad memories. 

Like what appears to be the Halloween of 1997, for example.

“Missions aren’t half as interesting,” James is saying as Q hastily tries to reposition himself in front of the offending photograph. “Half as interesting, half my attention. Now if you’ll kindly step aside, I’d really like to see what you’re trying to hide behind your back because if you’re going through such great pains to not let me see it, it really must be worth seeing.”

“It isn’t,” insists Q, because he still has some modicum of dignity left. “It really isn’t.”

“I’ll be the judge of that myself, if you don’t mind.”

Q braces himself against the wall and wonders how much commotion he’ll cause if he flings the photo frame over James’ head and down the stairs. 

“In that case, we have a conflict of interests because I–“ Q inches up closer to the wall, backed up against the photo while James closes in, “–certainly do mind.”

“You know that the more you try to hide it, the more I’m going to want to see it.”

James is practically crowding Q now and Q doesn’t want to think about how they must look like hormonal teenagers trying to have a quick snog on the stairs. 

“James, if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to go up those last few steps and forget this ever happened.”

“And why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because I _know_ for a fact that if I let you see this, I am going to regret it for the rest of my waking hours?”

“Such paranoia,” sniffs James and Q bleakly takes note of how James doesn’t exactly deny Q’s prediction. “Whatever it must be, it can’t be as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

Taking into account all that has happened tonight, it almost feels like a given that one of two worst case scenarios will happen.

One: Since being in a pseudo-relationship with a secret agent while not exactly being a secret agent himself means Q has to abandon all hope of winning in any sort of match pertaining to physical capabilities, Q ends up being uncouthly manhandled aside. The photograph in question is commandeered, James makes copies of said photograph via taking photos of it with his mobile and Q lives out the rest of his days in fear that the bloody thing will show up on the MI6 internal mailing list. 

Two: Since they are on the stairs, completely in full view of everyone who might enter the living area, Q’s father walks in through the front door with Tim or Thomas or whatever Gracie’s new boy toy is called, only to see both Q and James in the most compromising position imaginable. Shocked silence ensues, first impressions are ruined with horrific efficiency, Eileen stumbles into the picture wielding the camera from before, and the moment is forever immortalized in .JPG format.

What Q _doesn’t_ take into account is scenario one and two happening at more or less the same time.

"Put that _down_ or I swear to god I will–" Q doesn’t exactly flail, but he comes damned close to it, James taking the opportunity to sneakily slip his hand behind Q’s back and wrench the photo frame away.

“You will?”

“Oh,” comes a startled sound from the door and not for the first time that night, James turns around only to be blinded by the light of a camera flash.

“Look at these two, can’t keep their hands off each other for a moment, can they?”

“Mother we weren’t–…”

“Bugger,” mutters James to Q, low and decidedly cross against Q’s ear. “Thank god I brought a gun.”

“You _what_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching along, very slowly. Sorry for the delays, Doctor Who happened D;

**Author's Note:**

> An unbeta'd, corrections-are-always-welcome fill for an anon on tumblr who wanted "Bond attends a dinner with Q's family". We'll get to dinner at some point, I promise!


End file.
